Rabid
by gallery
Summary: Fenris once believed that some things must be worse than slavery. But hope never seemed more futile than the moment he is returned to bondage. Betrayed by Hawke, Fenris is consumed by a need for revenge. He'll let nothing stand between him and bloody satisfaction, carving his way through enemies and allies to the final confrontation.
1. R uthless

_He who fights with monsters must take care, lest he thereby become a monster._

"If you want him, he's yours."

These words signal the end of everything. Yet Fenris only gapes at Hawke in stunned disbelief. Betrayal like this needs heat, hatred, _anything_ but the calm, callous offering left echoing through him. Blood rushes through his body and makes his heart ache; a potent concoction of dread and adrenaline; it has fueled his fury at being lured into Danarius' trap here at the Hanged Man. A ploy perpetrated by no other than the elf with the red hair standing timidly behind Fenris' old master, Danarius.

Varania, his __sister__.

"Hawke, no…" Fenris says, his voice weak.

Hawke refuses to look at him. In a rush that makes Fenris' guts lurch, the revelation is reality. Fenris glances back at Merrill and Anders, aware in this moment that they are mere strangers to him, standing in on the most personal moments of his remembered life. When Fenris went to Hawke for support to meet his lost sister, he should have known something was strange when Hawke chose the mages. It was foolish in retrospect, consolidating such power in one place, but all Fenris cared about was recovering a piece of his past. A sister. _I suspected a trap, but this..._

Merrill senses the silent accusation behind Fenris' narrowed glare. With a soft gasp she drops her gaze and keeps her eyes anchored on her feet. "You knew," Fenris hardly breathes. Fenris doesn't doubt for a moment that the Dalish would attempt to kill him at the snap of Hawke's fingers. The blood mage worships Kirkwall's Champion. But right now the elf looks ready for the ground to swallow her up.

"And you." Fenris shifts his eyes to Anders. Unlike Merrill, Anders unflinchingly stares back at Fenris. The mage presses his lips together, perhaps to stop himself from replying, but there is nothing plaintive on his face. He's enjoying this, Fenris thinks. Fenris curls his lip in familiar disgust at the mage. Perhaps the idea of betraying Fenris to Danarius began as _his_ whisper in Hawke's ear.

The alternative is too painful to accept.

"Interesting." Danarius purrs, a subtle sway in his step as he slowly descends from the top of the stairs. "You will be well-compensated of course, Champion. The power of the Imperium will be at your disposal."

Fenris' eyes snap back to Hawke. "Don't do this, Hawke." Despite his efforts, even Fenris can hear the rising desperation in his own voice. "I need you."

"You only need me when I can be useful to you." Hawke snaps. The anger in Hawke's voice is like the crack of a whip, its stunning ferocity forcing Fenris to take a step back. "Like fighting your bounty hunters and chasing Hadriana. I'm sick of being your attack dog. Sorry, Fenris but you're on your own."

Is that... how you seen me?

"Alone, yes, as always!" His markings flicker as he fumbles with his anger. Let anger drown out the pain.

"You pushed everyone away, Fenris." Hawke says, stabbing an accusing finger into the space between them. "Not that I didn't damn well try! Merrill tried harder than any sane person should have, yet you treat her worse than garbage."

Merrill unsuccessfully tries not to squirm at being mentioned.

"So don't act surprised we don't leap to your rescue, you hateful little shit."

"Not everyone." Fenris tries to lash back, but his voice is thick.

"For the love of the Maker, don't drag me back into that." Hawke sighs with exasperation. "Fenris, we were together one night. And then you were as fast to get back into your clothes as you had to be out of them. For a slave, you don't hesitate to make use of other people."

"And he calls me a hypocrite." Anders mocks, his lips drawn in a sneer.

This elicits a churlish chuckle from the Tevinter slave-hunters. Fenris shoots daggers with his eyes at them, but not one of them appear the least threatened.

"I… I explained why I had to leave!" Fenris cries in outrage, whipping back to face Hawke.

"There's always been some excuse." Hawke dismisses him. "It's done, Fenris."

"Far from it." Fenris growls.

"Now, now, Fenris," Danarius says with the soft click of his tongue. The magister's admonishment is softened with amusement. "Don't work yourself into a fuss. Be a good boy and come quietly."

"And what do you intend to do with me?" Fenris demands. "If you're after these markings, I won't lay still for you to carve them out."

"I have never known you to simply lie still, my little wolf." Danarius says, a sly curl to his lips.

The crowd snickers and Fenris narrows his eyes at Danarius in disgust, his lips pulling back from his teeth.

"What a savage look. Has living in the streets made you feral?" Danarius strokes one of the small braids in his gray beard. "I could reassure you that my intention is not to kill you, but that would give the impression that a slave's approval matters." He pauses, leveling his gaze on Fenris. "So let us instead observe that you are standing before me now, alive, when I can have you otherwise. You may change my mind by resisting further. It is up to you."

The elf, his sister - _no, not mine, I refuse_ - hesitantly takes a step toward him. One dangerous look from Fenris causes her to retake that step. "Don't throw your life away, Leto," she urges softly.

Fenris looks around him, trying to not feel hopeless, even as hopelessness descends on him with a heavy hand. He knows he is fast enough to kill the nearest guards before Danarius could bind him with a spell. If he plays it out right, he could slaughter his way to the front door to escape; he may make it outside if Hawke and the other mages don't intervene.

But then what? Flee to the mansion like they would expect, lock the doors and hide under a blanket? The weight presses on him, until he hangs his head in defeat. "No." He says. The chase is over. "I will go with you."

"Lovely!" Danarius smiles. "Here, Champion. A token of thanks for returning my lost property. A more appropriate reward will be delivered once I return to the Imperium." He passes a velvet pouch to Hawke, who tucks it into a belt pocket with the vaguest of nods.

Danarius gestures to Varania and the guards. "Come along, everyone. The boat for Minrathous departs within the hour."

The lieutenant of the guard steps up to Fenris from behind, and in one quick, practiced movement encloses a slender collar around the elf's neck. Fingers brush against Fenris' hair as they slide a pin into its place, locking it. Fenris jerks away from the contact, a scowl engraved around his mouth. What is the point of such a trinket, other than to shame him with its symbol? It does not surprise Fenris, however; Danarius has always pushed the theatrics. But the lieutenant is not intimidated by Fenris' warning look and to prove it he shoves Fenris hard between the shoulders. "Walk, slave."

Fenris reluctantly obeys, his shoulders stooping. His steps are minced, the path back to slavery as difficult to walk as broken glass. He glares up through the veil of white hair over his eyes as he passes Hawke. Rage boils through him when Hawke meets his eyes and smiles. Fenris doesn't recognize those eyes. Eyes that once scorched him with desire now burn cold with contempt. Fenris stops and stares. The thought of slinking back to Tevinter, wearing no less than Danarius' collar once more, grips Fenris. The injustice would make Andraste weep. Fenris has far less kind feelings.

"You won't get away with this, Hawke." Fenris swears, his teeth grinding together. "I won't let you." He bids the lyrium brands on his skin flare to life. Even the magical lines beneath his clothing shine through. As soon as Fenris thinks to act, the lieutenant behind him is reacting, and he is fast; immediately he extends a hand to grab Fenris. With one fluid twist of his body Fenris evades the grab. He swings his hand and spins around, grabbing the man's throbbing jugular. Fenris allows his incorporeal fingers to materialize around the esophagus as his hand phases through the neck. Body tissue tears like a wet napkin between the serrated edges of Fenris' fang-tipped gauntlets and he opens the lieutenant's throat in a fountain of gurgling blood.

Fenris closes his fingers in a fist after his hand frees from the guard, and his body follows the momentum of the swing, completing the spin to face Hawke. Mere seconds have elapsed in the time required to slash open the lieutenant's throat but Fenris instantly realizes that killing the man was a mistake; Hawke, his true target, has pulled back outside of his reach. It's too late to stop; as his arm stabs past where Hawke had been moments ago, he adjusts his aim by inches. His fist punches through Merrill's chest instead. His hand bursts through her body, exploding from between her shoulder-blades. The Dalish's large green eyes instantly roll backward, blood bubbling from the corners of her mouth. Blood sprays in stinging fissures around Fenris' fingers with incredible pressure. It paints the far wall, managing to make the Hanged Man even filthier. Merrill's staff falls from her twitchy fingers.

Then time catches up to him.

Anders screams, hungry flames rippling up his arm. "Evil bastard—!" With a furious slash of his hand a ball of fire hurtles toward Fenris.

Fenris whirls to Anders, lashing out his arm to throw off Merrill's weight. He frees his hand from her chest with a sickening sound, and her body sails toward the blast of fire roaring toward him. The walls of the room shudder under the backlash of concussive force the moment Merrill's body impacts the fireball. Anders staggers backward, unable to dodge Merrill when her body crashes into him. He's knocked down to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Before Fenris can take another step agony suddenly branches through him. The pain cuts him deeper than any knife, rushing through the tracks of embedded lyrium in his skin. _Magic_, Fenris' instincts scream. Fenris tries to run, to escape from magic's knife flaying him on the inside, but his legs give out at the first step and he falls to the floor. The pain, oh Maker, no, please no, it felt like dying and being born again; as if his markings were reliving their creation, cut by cut.

"Heel, Fenris." Danarius sighs, sounding almost bored.

Fenris writhes until the blue glow of his markings abruptly vanish. He's left panting between strained whimpers, darkness flickering at the corners of his vision. He feels the burn of bile rising to drown his lungs as he forces himself to push himself up by his hands and unsteadily get back on his feet. _I'll die on my feet free, not as a slave on his belly. _Brave sentiment for a man who was all but weeping, he thinks bitterly.

No sooner has Fenris straightened on his feet then a fist punches into the side of his face, shredding the inside of his cheek against his teeth. The room spins, swallowing Fenris up. He slips in the pooling blood on the floor and hits the floor on his stomach. His head knocks against the wood planks, momentarily stunning him. As the tavern shifts back into focus, Fenris doesn't try to stand again.

Danarius continues stroking his beard. "That's good, Fenris. Be still." A silver band twinkles on one of his fingers. Fenris can't see it clearly through his swelling eye, but he... hears it, feels it. Like a soft, soft song, or... the memory of one? Before Fenris can decipher the strange feeling, rough hands grab him by his clothes and roll him onto his back. Hawke stands over him with a sword in both hands, prepared to plunge it through his chest. To put him down like a wild dog.

But the deathblow doesn't come.

"Champion, my apologies." Danarius quickly approaches, his hands spread in supplication.

"He killed Merrill!" Hawke shouts, face wracked with anguish. Fenris stares in amazement, that someone so tore up over a dead blood mage is the same person selling him into slavery and torture.

Anders grunts as he frees himself from beneath Merrill's body. The elf's body turns over and her lifeless eyes stare unblinking at the sparrows in the rafters. Anders is covered in her blood, his feather pauldrons sticky and ruined. "He nearly killed __you__, love!"

"Yes, his manners are terribly lacking." Danarius sighs, not sparing a glance down at the gore. The death of his lieutenant laying face-down on the floor just a kick away doesn't seem to merit an acknowledgment. "Of course I will provide restitution for your dead elf."

Fenris laughs. "The magister is generous."

Hawke's knuckles drain white, squeezing the hilt of the sword. "I felt sorry for you." Hawke snarls at Fenris before backing down and shoving the sword back into its sheath. "But you're an animal. You __belong__ on the end of a leash."

"He's a monster." Anders readily agrees. "I have always cautioned he is more dangerous than the mages he condemns."

Hawke steps back, allowing Fenris to be dragged to his feet by more of Danarius' guard. "I won't kill you. You deserve worse."

"I'll return someday, Hawke." Fenris forces himself to smile. "And you'll wish you had." His voice dries up in a whisper but the hatred in it could not have felt more potent. "But I'll come for you last."

Hawke's hand snaps out and roughly grabs Fenris by the chin, calloused fingers smearing the blood by his ruined mouth. Hawke jerks Fenris' closer and peers deep into the slits of Fenris' green eyes. "I doubt that." Hawke breathes against his face. "You're going to be far too busy __coming__ for someone else." The words are so caustic its all Fenris can do not to squirm in Hawke's grip. The Champion shoves Fenris' face away and smiles coldly. "But I'm flattered that you'll be thinking of me."

Hawke looks at Danarius. "Get him the fuck out of my bar."

"With haste." Danarius offers Hawke a simpering smile before snapping his fingers at his attendants. "Strip him, quickly. I won't have those filthy clothes rub off on the upholstery in my cabin."

Fenris is seized upon by several pairs of hands. The sounds of fabric tearing make him wince as his shirt is ripped from his body, and his armaments stripped away. "Do not touch me!" His intended snarl only squeaks out. Fenris is grabbed by the hair and his head forced down toward his knees. His leggings are pulled down and torn away, leaving his markings stinging from the brusque contact.

"He's so thin," Varania whispers to her master. Fenris' feels his skin burn in response, and he tries to tune her out from among the round of murmurs and snickering. He doesn't doubt it is Danarius' intention to rob him of any dignity, so Fenris makes it his mission to deny the magister, and stand straight and unfettered by shame. He watches as every piece of clothing, even his gauntlets and chestplate, are tossed in the crackling fireplace. The flames hiss beneath the bloody garments, and they begin to smoke.

"That will have to do." Danarius sighs. "Now we must keep up a pace. I won't have this little stunt delay our departure."

A guard grabs and squeezes Fenris by the neck, forcing him to walk toward the tavern entrance. Naked, Fenris steps outside and the hand lets go. Blinking in the sunlight, Fenris sees the gawking crowds which have already gathered outside the Hanged Man. A slave in the City of Chains must hold some novelty for them, Fenris thinks with disgust.

As Danarius leads the procession toward the docks, the following of curious onlookers grows until the streets become clogged with people. Fenris can feel the many pairs of eyes staring at his bare skin and the elaborate tattoos thereupon, and his white hair streaked with blood and dampened by sweat. Not to mention his _knife-ears_. The Imperial guards in their ornate, glittering onyx armor encircling him would have been enough of a spectacle itself. He's just a bonus. Fenris keeps his head down as he is herded through the twisting alleys and markets, his eyes burning from the sunlight glinting off sandstone streets. The dampness in his eyes is not from shame, he must remind himself. _They can't have my dignity unless I give it._

Without him having noticed, someone is walking beside him. "Leto."

"Don't call me that." Fenris hisses. That name is a curse as sure as the collar he wears.

"Fenris." Varania tries again, "You need to know that I didn't have a choice."

"A slave isn't required to understand anything."

"This was the only way for me to become an apprentice. To have a chance at a better life."

"Mother would be proud." He sneers.

"Mother would understand." Varania frowns slightly. "When you used the boon from Danarius to free us, we no longer had a home, or food, or means to survive. When mother got sick, her only option was to die." The frown turns sad. "You lived pampered in a mansion while I scavenged the streets all on my own. If I didn't want to spend a night sleeping in garbage, I had to accompany someone else to their bed."

Fenris shuts his eyes to block her out, shaking his head. "Why tell me this! You'll never be able to justify—"

Varania looks at him calmly. "You think you know true suffering, but there are countless slaves in Tevinter, Leto. Compared to them, you were truly blessed. You threw away a life anyone else would be grateful for. Now that the consequences have caught up with you, you're angry. But I don't deserve your anger. I-"

"Shut your mouth, Varania!" Fenris snarls. He refuses to even consider this!

Varania does, thankfully, give up on him. Without another word, she leaves his side and hurries ahead to accompany Danarius.

Fenris looks up at the sky, seeing the masts and sails of ships rising over the docks. The many colors of flags roll out in the warm breezes. He recognizes the emblems of Amaranthine and Highever, Ostwick, Wycome, even from parts as faraway as Antiva. And, to his dismay, the colors of the Imperium flying black midst their more colorful array.

As Fenris nears, the Tevinter heraldry of the entwined Dragon and Snake is clear. It's a tight vessel, below the extravagant standards of a magister of Danarius' standing. A clipper, built to cut through water like a spear. Danarius must have been in a hurry to reach Kirkwall and claim his prize, Fenris thinks with chagrin. Fenris also doesn't fail to notice the carving of the prophetess Andraste at the prow, as her architect clearly intended; the Bride of the Maker is proudly naked but for flames that billow around her body and wind into her hair.

She seems to smile down at Fenris knowingly, but never has he felt so alone.


	2. E nmity

Each dip of the stern into the sea's choppy waters sends faint tremors through the windows of the captain's cabin. Sunset glares through the dingy glass. The orange and reds remind Fenris of the colored glass in Kirkwall's chantry. The mottled sunlight stretches across the cabin, shining especially bright at the edges of a crystal decanter sitting on a silver tray.

Fenris watches Danarius reach a hand toward the tray and lift a crystal cup from its place beside the decanter. As the cup's content slides toward Danarius' lips, the liquid shines like amber held against a summer sun. Danarius takes a slow drink from it, his pink-rimmed eyes never moving from Fenris. Fenris returns the stare, focused on appearing impassive, even when the man lowers the glass and slips the tip of his tongue across his upper lip to relish the taste of its fare - as well as the sight of the naked slave before him.

"Did you find an opportunity to sample Antivan brandy, little wolf?" Danarius smiles, balancing the weight of the glass across his fingers, lifting the cup so it catches the light.

Fenris says nothing.

Danarius idly takes another sip. "Was it an Antivan, then?"

Fenris unclenches his jaw. "No."

"All those years of travel yielded no noteworthy experiences? Just wasteful."

"I was somewhat distracted trying to stay alive." Fenris responds coldly.

"And you succeeded beyond all expectation. I was thrilled when Varania came to me and shared your letter." Danarius smiles, but Fenris senses it is aimed at Varania; the other elf has been silently standing behind Fenris since they entered the cabin. "It has all been serendipitous, to say the least. You have your sister, I have my apprentice, and we can all begin anew as one happy family."

Lines deepen across his nose as Fenris pulls his lip over his teeth. "Do not mock me, Danarius."

"Must you spoil the mood?" Danarius irritably sets down his cup by the arm of his chair. The crystal clacks sharply against the tray.

"And what mood does this hope to inspire?" Fenris demands, gesturing to his own nudity with the sweep of both his hands. Dried sweat and blood - only some of which is his own - flakes like a second skin itching to be shed. Innumerable scratches and bruises wind over his torso and legs, marring the elegant lines of his markings. The welt left on his face is still tender and the inside of his mouth tastes of stale blood.

"Reunions should be a tad less spiteful, I think."

"I don't care what you think." Fenris snaps, sharply glancing at Varania, who averts her eyes. "Either of you."

Danarius runs his fingers across his lap, smoothing out an unseemly wrinkle in the fabric. The silver band around one of his fingers catches Fenris' eye again. It is no ordinary piece of jewelry. Fenris is certain the ring is imbued with lyrium, designed to interact with his markings, which are also lyrium in nature. He heard its song before in the Deep Roads, humming under his skin. Danarius would enjoy such a sadistic toy, Fenris thinks, and must admit to himself it is an effective leash. He is in no hurry to repeat his experience in the Hanged Man so soon.

"But you shall care, as you did before. More so, I believe." Danarius' fingers find a snagged thread along a train of embroidery. "You've cost me much, my pet, but I shall have the full worth of every coin from you. As any slave." He frowns at the string. "You, your memory, all will be... re-purposed."

Fenris' eyes darken with confusion.

"We'll put this whole awful experience behind us and forget those plebeians you cavorted with. And your utter failure in Seheron, which began this mess." He yanks his fingers and the loose thread snaps free of the robe. "Something I would like to forget, myself." Danarius rubs his fingers together and the thread vanishes inside a spark of flame. "Yes, I believe a clean slate will improve your attitude considerably."

"I… I thought receiving these markings had wiped everything away? The pain of it..." Fenris whispers, looking at his hands. He closes his eyes, but it won't help; trying to remember anything before the branding ritual only succeeds in making his markings ache like an old wound.

Danarius reaches for his glass again and drains it with one gulp. "I think, this time, it will be worth a few more slaves to strengthen the spell."

Slaves? _This time? _Then... He means to use blood magic to alter my mind, Fenris realizes, and it won't be the first time. The thought makes Fenris feel sick.

"May I watch?" Varania's voice snaps the dazed expression from Fenris' face. He turns his head to stare at her. "To witness such powerful magic is a rare privilege," Varania says, looking only at the magister. "It would be a privilege."

The pitiless request has the opposite effect on Danarius, who shows his teeth in a smile fit to charm vipers. "It would. I'm pleased by your interest, my dear. That ambition will take you far."

Fenris hones his glare between Varania's eyes, wishing its heat could bore a hole straight through. For all her soft words and concern for his life while in the Hanged Man, she has proven herself an apt pupil of Danarius in the end. It is inevitable that she will continue to betray her brother so long as Danarius continues to throw her scraps of power. Later, she will do harm for the sheer pleasure of it, of that Fenris has no doubt.

She will live up to Hadriana's legacy well, Fenris thinks bitterly. Is this truly the family he was foolish to hope for? How could this crone be his sister? Fenris grinds his teeth and considers crushing her heart right now and rid the world of another magister. But Fenris doesn't twitch one muscle in her direction. He well knows how pointless that last act of defiance would be. This world would not notice the absence of a single mage and the slaves that will one-day fuel Varania's rituals will inevitably bleed for someone else. Even Danarius would not bat an eye. Apprentices kill each other every day for the opportunity to be used and thrown away by magisters like him.

Let her body be thrown to the pile, he thinks.

What is more important than repaying Varania is that Fenris does not wish to die. He denies being a coward but should he attack her, his own death would be certain. So long as he is within the reach of Danarius' ring, Fenris must choose his actions carefully. I can't die yet, Fenris resolves, not while Hawke lives. I'll die smiling so long as Hawke dies first.

"P-Please," Fenris grits, forcing the words past his pride. It is not easy. "Don't do it."

Danarius slowly lifts his eyebrows.

"My memory… is who I am."

"And it has made you spiteful and defiant," Danarius waves a hand. "I shan't trust myself to enjoy a moment's relaxation with you acting so belligerent."

"Leto," Varania says hesitantly, "when you competed for those markings and won the honors of the tournament, it was the happiest I have seen you. You fought so hard for mother and I but you also did it for yourself. You proved your worth. That's who you are. This isn't you." Her voice is gentle. He hates how gentle. "You're miserable."

"Of course I'm miserable," he retorts. "I have been betrayed by everyone I have dared trust all in one afternoon!" He grabs the slender band around his neck. "I was given this charming gift, then endured unimaginable pain. Or was being paraded through Kirkwall in nothing but my skin meant to make up for all that?"

Danarius sighs, finding the grousing tiresome. "The nature of your relationship with the Champion is enough reason to deny you. I can't have thoughts of revenge tempting you to desert your duty."

Duty? Fenris forces himself not to scoff at the notion of a dutiful slave. Instead he steps forward, the palms of his blood-stained hands raised imploringly. "Danarius, please-"

Danarius lifts a finger. "Ah."

Fenris drops his hands with a barely-concealed scowl. "_Master_. Please."

Danarius idly twists the silver band around his finger, his eyes tracking down the elf's body, perusing the shallow grooves of toned muscle which flex with every controlled breath. "No. I'm afraid I don't find you persuasive, my little wolf."

Fenris meets the magister's eyes. "I can be." He says thickly.

This causes Danarius to pause. He stops playing with the ring and instead knits his hands together, his sickly-colored eyes imbibing the sight of his bare-skinned slave. Fenris suppresses a shiver. Danarius knows just what strings to pull to make Fenris dance but Fenris is also aware of his master's... weaknesses. Exploiting them, however, requires a kind of desperation Fenris hasn't reached for. Until now.

If he fails to convince Danarius to leave his memories unmolested then he loses the chance to avenge himself. Fenris would become an obedient, complacent slave to Danarius for the rest of his life. He may not be Fenris anymore, just as he no longer acknowledges Leto.

After a long minute of contemplation Danarius nods in agreement. The magister is intrigued, as Fenris knew he would be. But that was the only easy part. Fenris obligingly sinks to the floor. He pushes back the humiliation he feels from abasing himself by pleading and crawling on his hands and knees, much like the pleasure slaves of Carastes. Once he accompanied Danarius to the drinking halls in Carastes and had seen them for himself: those slaves at least wore garments made of coins and jewels. He wears nothing but his filthy markings.

Fenris tries to recall more of this memory, to aid him as he begins to move. He tries to appear seductive but his muscles bunch and tense with loathing as he crawls toward the foot of Danarius' chair. The challenge is considerable given his urge to vomit. When Fenris reaches Danarius' slippered feet he lifts his hand to part the magister's robe.

"Stop," Danarius commands. His nose creases with distaste as if his last sip of vintage brandy were rancid. "Perhaps this lack of finesse excites your Fereldan bumpkin but it is utterly unbecoming of any servant of mine." Danarius flicks his fingers in imperious fashion. "I will permit you to try this once more."

"I, ah… as you wish." Fenris mumbles, gracelessly getting to his feet.

He turns away and retreats to his former place on the floor. It is difficult to ignore Varania's presence even when she stands like another piece of furniture in the room. She has the decency to pretend not to watch at least, Fenris thinks, as he lowers himself to his knees a second time. Being told that he moves as well as a three-legged mabari has shaken him with doubt. Danarius must be toying with him as usual. A tumult of emotion churns in Fenris' gut; humiliation and bitterness and rage. His ribs expand over deep breaths while he tries to clear his thoughts.

Steeling himself, Fenris slinks forward again. This time he moves slowly, fluidly. He's aware of the taut muscles in his arms and stomach and the sway of his narrow hips as he exchanges one knee forward for the next. He forces himself to look Danarius in the eyes while he approaches, and that is the worst of it. No amount of determination could put desire in his fierce green eyes.

If the magister notices this he does not show it. His face betrays nothing while he observes Fenris reach the foot of his chair. The elf rears up and sits back on his heels, lifting his hands to part the robe spread across Danarius' knees.

"Stop!"

Fenris tenses at the agitation in the man's voice, leaving his hands hanging in the air. He had not gotten close enough yet to even touch the cloth. Fenris wonders if it would be possible to rip Danarius' jaw from his face before he could summon on his ring, but discards the thought as folly. "Master?" Fenris queries as politely as he can manage.

"Do you really think I wish to be pawed on by those filthy hands?" Danarius reaches for the decanter on the side table. He tips the neck toward his glass to replenish it. Fenris notes the man's indulgence; each toast another celebration to his _victory_ over his fugitive slave no doubt. Fenris is positioned close enough that he can breathe the heat of the brandy's rich aroma. "All these years spent honing swordplay; you've clearly allowed other skills to fall to the wayside." Danarius huffs, setting the decanter back down. The crystal spills pins of light over the room, beautiful and brief in the vanishing evening light. "It was a vain hope that you might have learned some new, stimulating techniques from the Champion of Kirkwall. Ah, how envious would my colleagues be."

The reminder of Fenris' night spent with Hawke causes Fenris to tense all over. "Hawke wasn't interested in foreplay," he defends stiffly.

"Ho!" Danarius laughs, tipping his glass toward Fenris in a delighted toast. "How saucy."

Fenris thinks quickly. "But I did learn some, ah, arts." He tries not to sound eager as a plan takes form in his mind, "Permit me to... indulge you. You may reconsider this ritual of yours. As you say, my value..."

"I'm fascinated." Danarius looks down at Fenris with his eyes half-lidded. "Yes. You must demonstrate your new talents. If you manage to impress me, I just may reconsider, as you say."

"It...would be... my pleasure." Before this day, Fenris would have chosen to rip out his own tongue with flaming pincers before offering himself to Danarius. The day is full of surprises.

Danarius smiles. "Varania, sweetling." He motions with two fingers.

Fenris lifts his head to watch his sister approach. She moves with the deliberate allure borne from servitude to decadent masters; trained to make even the emptying of chamber-pots appear seductive. Danarius extends his hand to her and Varania gingerly steps within reach. She stands very still at the side of his chair, as inanimate as the table at Danarius' other elbow. Fenris can't see through the mask she wears but recognizes it just the same.

Without moving out of his chair, Danarius leans forward and reaches for the clasp at the nape of Varania's simple dress. There is no other sound in the cabin but the dull rumbling of waves while the folds of the dress fall open.

Fenris' composure slips. "What are you doing?"

The tight bodice of the dress relaxes and the collar unfolds further, slipping down Varania's pale shoulders and exposing the slope of her bosom. Her skin is pale, a faint dust of freckles complementing her copper-red hair. Danarius looks at Fenris with eyes glazed from drink, his spindly fingers idly riding down the slope of her spine. "I can't be expected to make an unbiased decision were I involved, could I? Come, dear."

Varania slips her fingers into the gathered fabric and pulls the dress down to her waist. Fenris averts his eyes too late. He's left staring at the floor in shock. He inhales sharply when the dress drops to the floor, the piled fabric encircling Varania's slender ankles. He realizes the magister's full intent with horror. "She is my sister!"

"Varania is _my_ apprentice." Danarius corrects him sharply. "You are a slave. That is the only distinction you will heed."

Fenris shuts his eyes tight, feeling a tremble begin deep in his bones. He knew the perversions of Danarius ran deep, but this...

"Take this opportunity to make an impression on your new Mistress." The magister's sadistic mirth returns with an underlying chuckle.

Fenris dares to flick his gaze upward, through the hair fallen across his eyes. Danarius fondly strokes the curve of Varania's backside but with an absent-mindedness afforded to an obedient dog. Varania stands with her hands anchored at her sides and makes no attempt to conceal her body or shy from her brother's gaze. Her own gaze seems fixed elsewhere in the room. Where her thoughts lie, Fenris can't guess.

"Your crude behavior in that tavern did you no credit," he admonishes, his hand still trailing across Varania's skin. "See how she trembles; likely in fear you'll rut like a wild dog." He chuckles and gives Varania's rear cheek a reassuring pat. "He's never been that bad, my dear."

Fenris is too mortified to respond, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Shall we, then?"

Varania steps outside of the ring of her clothing. That one step brings her too close for comfort and Fenris instinctively rears back, feeling, of all other things, frightened. He almost falls in his haste to push himself away from her. His hands catch the floor beneath him before he ends up sprawled on it. The pounding of his heart feels like a stake is being driven through his chest.

Danarius leers from behind the rim of his glass. "It's good to see some things in this world remain honest."

Fenris scrambles to sit on his heels and conceal the long muscle hanging between his legs, sequestering it behind his hands. Feeling debased by the response of his own body he bites lip to hold his revulsion in. His restraint barely holds as curses rise to his lips. His reaction doesn't seem to disturb Danarius. If anything, Fenris gave the mage the reaction he wanted.

Varania bends down to whisper, "It's all right, Leto," and holds out her hand to touch him.

"No!" Fenris balks, turning his face from her reach. He should never have sent her that letter! He should never have nurtured the germ of hope Hadriana had planted! Moreover he should not have killed Hadriana nearly so quickly for setting all this into motion. He closes his eyes. To say his soul feels weary would be insufficient. "No. I… I could not… bear the shame."

"Oh?" Danarius leans forward and the fumes of brandy slither past his withered lips. "You _will_ fuck her, my pet, and with sheer joy. And after you have spent your very last drop inside her, you will kiss my feet and thank me for the pleasure. Because I am a generous master." He cocks his head. "Is that not how you described me?"

Fenris gapes stupidly at Danarius, realization giving place to the horror in his eyes. How foolish he was to think he could manipulate Danarius, one of the most accomplished powermongers of the Magisterium. Fenris mocked him in front of his cronies and the Champion of Kirkwall, and Danarius is a proud man.

"Was there honestly a moment you thought you could win?"

An abrupt boom of thunder shakes the cabin. Twilight has blanketed the sky in black and velvet blues. The windows no longer remind Fenris of the Maker but dark portals to the Void itself.

Fenris drops down to his hands and knees, bent low enough to touch his forehead to his knuckles. "Please." He begs, his voice little more than a cracked whisper. "_Please_. Not my sister..." Hope is a sweet poison, but poison nonetheless. Once, he knew that.

A vile grin crawls across Danarius' lips. "Beg for my pleasure."

"I beg to please you, master!" He cries hoarsely, speaking the words as countless slaves have before him. "Whip me! Teach me that you own me! I beg your touch, master! I beg it!" Fenris digs his fingers against the rug beneath his body and rubs the bitter tears from his face with its unforgiving wool.

"Such delicious drama. I could eat it with a spoon." Danarius giggles. He leans even closer, until he perches on the edge of the chair. "On your knees, slave," he commands, the tone of his voice deepened.

With heavy movement Fenris lifts his belly from the floor and draws his beneath him to sit.

"Open your mouth."

Obediently he tilts his head back and opens his mouth. Without ceremony soaked fingers roughly push past his lips. The taste of Antivan brandy spreads across his tongue. The rakes inside his cheek burn from it. Dark droplets of the brandy collect at the edges of his lips and drip down his chin.

"Suck."

He sucks the fingers in his mouth while his pride is murdered in his chest.

"You do that well." Danarius pulls his fingers from the elf's mouth and reaches for the decanter by the chair. "If you enjoyed the brandy then I see no reason why you should not have more." Danarius stands and extends the crystal container over Fenris and the liquor pours out in one continuous stream, splashing Fenris' head and matting down his hair. The liquid runs down his face and neck. The lacerations on his body burn as the stream of brandy coats his back and ribs, slipping down his thighs. The brandy's rich smell overpowers his nostrils with strong tones of copper, washing his skin clean of old blood. The stains that soak into the rug are black as sin.

Another peal of thunder cracks overhead. Varania lifts her eyes to the ceiling, listening to the scuff of boots hurriedly moving across the deck. Her lips move; Fenris barely catches her softly murmured words.

Danarius leans back in his chair and tosses away a silk handkerchief used for drying his fingers. "Now; let us explore what else that naughty mouth of yours can do."

The footsteps on the ceiling quicken into furious pounding. Danarius' face twists with annoyance. "What are they _doing_ up there?"

"_No lightning,_" Fenris whispers to himself, repeating Varania.

An urgent knock comes at the door. Without waiting for a response a deckhand bursts in. His eyes are large and startled; barging into a Tevinter magister's suite would be bracing but Fenris judges by the sailor's torn shirt and sweaty mop of hair that it's something else frightening him. As the sailor fumbles for words Fenris strains his ears to pick out the sound of ringing steel from the shouting on deck. Danarius' men were fighting, but against whom?

"Forgive me, messere!" The sailor stammers, "but the ship is under att-_ack_!" He stiffens and falls face first to the floor. A curved handle sticks from his left shoulder. The blade pierced clean through the heart. He is dead before he lands. Fenris blinks. _I know that knife!_

"Blast it." A woman's husky timbre carries into the room. "He ruined my entrance."

Danarius rises from his chair, slow and leisurely, but Fenris notices a detectable sway in the legs from his considerable drinking. "Who dares?" Danarius demands, projecting a confidence that whatever walks through that door will die, should it please him.

A dusky-skinned woman steps over the deckhand's body to enter the cabin; she wears dark leather boots as long as her legs. "That would be the new captain of this vessel." She smiles and a gold piercing under her full lips catches the light from the sconces on the walls.

"Isabela?" Fenris gasps.

"In the flesh." She winks at Fenris. "Though not as literally as you. Not that I'm complaining. I'll probably join you. But later, when these killjoys are dead."


	3. V icious

Danarius sinks back down to the armchair and relaxes against its velvet cushions, one hand stroking his beard. "Fenris, you know this luscious creature." His half-lidded gaze follows Isabela while she casually pulls her dagger from the dead man's back. The magister's soft voice sounds as impressed as intrigued by the idea of his little wolf playing nice with others.

"In a fashion." Fenris reluctantly mutters. But he finds himself staring at her too. The last he saw of Isabela was during the Qunari siege. Right before she ran off with the tome of Koslun. Its been years, but the woman's appearance hasn't changed; same thick dark hair, windblown and tangled, her neck adorned with gold, the robust curves of her body straining the stitching of her white tunic.

"I'll use my imagination," Danarius says with a mocking smirk. "Though I suppose for a few coppers I could acquaint myself with her as well."

Fenris feels his teeth clench in response but Isabela chuckles. "Aren't you darling," she smiles, but her mischievous eyes are dark.

The floor beneath them lurches, bearing up at a sharp tilt as the ship crests a swollen wave. The furniture that is nailed-down stays in place but several trinkets, a vase, and the emptied crystal decanter on its tray slide onto the floor in a crash. Fenris nervously glances at the bay window to sees the waves have climbed high enough to be visible. When another crack of cannon fire splits the darkness, bright light quivers across the turbulent waters.

Fenris instinctively digs his nails into the floor and tenses against the pull of the ship underneath him. Varania practically hugs the top of Danarius' chair. Isabela stands unfalteringly on solid sealegs and offers Danarius a hollow smile. "Where has your sense of Tevinter hospitality gone? The naked elves were a nice start, even if they aren't glistening."

"I am a poor host this evening," Danarius admits. "I would offer you something to drink but I've run out of brandy. I suppose we have no alternative but to skip the courtesies. Varania, my staff."

"Huh?" Varania pants softly, hands hooked on the back of the chair, knuckles white with fright. The relief of the ship tipping back into balance again didn't alleviate Varania's nerves, nor Fenris' own; he can't swim any better than he can fly. "Y-Yes, mas-ah, Danarius." Varania manages to let go of the chair and walks with an uncertain sway across the large cabin toward the four-poster bed draped in heavy brocade fabric. Fenris notes that her dress had been hastily pulled on after Isabela's interruption, it's collar left unbuttoned.

Fenris looks away in disgust and shifts his eyes to Isabela. She stands patiently while Varania plays fetch with her master. Fenris' head is crowded with a hundred questions he can't ask. _Why?_, he can't stop wondering. Why are you trying to save someone like me, why are you doing this? Isabela notices his gaze and responds with a wink. If it was meant to be reassuring, Fenris fails to feel comforted.

In a few moments Varania comes scurrying back to Danarius' side carrying between her hands a stick of ugly twisted wood almost six feet tall. A fist-sized orb tops the staff, held inside gnarled wood claws. Ribbons of colored light swirl inside the orb like the menacing eye of a rage demon. The sight of it dismays Fenris with a hundred memories, none of them good. He's seen many lives ended by that blighted thing.

"What are you waiting for?" Fenris shouts at Isabela. "Attack him!"

"You forget yourself," Danarius says with displeasure. Blue light glints off his silver ring and Fenris doubles over as his markings come alive with pain.

Fool I am, Fenris thinks with fury. What I almost had forgotten was who I am dealing with. Danarius knows just where to dig his claws to bleed me; he _let_ me think I could manipulate him. There was never a chance of keeping my memory. As soon as we docked Danarius would have turned me into an obedient slave even if it cost him half the blood in the Imperium. All to simply save face.

His anger finds room for Isabela, his would-be savior, who allows her duelist honor to blind her to the odds. Without his staff, Isabela might have been able to kill him. But now… now she recklessly gambles with his life. This should be his fight! As he writhes at Danarius' feet, that anger drowns out the pain. "I'll _never_ forget, Danarius!" Fenris swears hoarsely. "I'll die before I submit to you again!"

"Mayhaps you shall," Danarius replies coldly.

"All right, we've all threatened each other," Isabela breaks in. "Can we get on to the killing part?"

The floor and walls groan and shake under the force of more booming cannons. Varania's gasps punctuate each one. "The ship is aflame!" She points to the doorway where gray smoke creeps across the ceiling.

Isabela smiles toothily. "Yes, that tends to happen when you involve things that burn with black powder."

Danarius claps his hands together. "Clever, my dear. After my guards finish killing your men they will have fire to contend with. No one should disturb us anytime soon. You seem to have thought of everything; so I am curious how you intend to dispose of me."

Isabela casually points the tip of a dagger at Danarius, who remains reposed in his chair. "I challenge you to a duel."

What Fenris is hearing is so ridiculous that he doesn't doubt it's true. Sure, duels among rivals are common in Tevinter. However, if Isabela is counting on Danarius to play by anyone's rules, she's mistaken. "I don't care what kind of deal you made with Hawke," Isabela says pointedly, "Fenris isn't going to Tevinter. I win, he comes with me a free man."

"Ah," Danarius smirks, deep creases bracketing his mouth. "Then if I win, you'll join our voyage to Tevinter. In chains."

"I look better in leather."

"No!" Fenris objects. "This isn't her fight. Danarius, you can't-"

Before he can finish, the floor slams into his face. Or maybe it was the other way around. Fenris is too disoriented to tell. He twists on the floor, crying out as his flesh feels as if its being pulled back from the bone. He struggles to reach for Danarius and manages to grab a fistful of robe. He can't push out words to speak; trying would surely result in biting off his own tongue. Instead he looks up imploringly, sweat dripping off his glowing skin.

"This situation is distressing without your added impertinence." Danarius' yellowed, glazed eyes narrow at Fenris in a final warning. He yanks the end of his robe from the elf's fist. He pauses after noticing a thin trickle of blood running from Fenris' nose, and then the glow fades from the magister's ring. The painful spasms wracking through Fenris ebb away at the same time his markings also stop shining. The soft refrains of a wordless song retreat from the forefront of his thoughts, yet now that he's aware of it, its presence still tickles the back of his skull.

Danarius reaches down to brush the elf's damp hair from his eyes. Fenris flinches when the limp strands are tucked behind his pointed ear. "I suppose I should be lenient; you are feral from living in the wild and must be reacquainted with civility."

As Danarius pulls back his hand back Fenris wishes for the strength to bite that finger off, even in a vain hope of freeing himself from the ring's power. But Danarius gracefully rises from his chair before Fenris can even lift his head from the floor. With a shuddering breath, Fenris slowly pulls himself up so he can kneel, knowing it's expected of him. Fenris feels shame when he glances at Isabela again. He must look like a coward.

If Isabela is shocked or outraged by Danarius' treatment, it doesn't show on her face. She always did have the best poker face, Fenris thinks. But this isn't a game of Wicked Grace she can bluff through.

"My dear," Danarius purrs, acting as if nothing unseemly has just occurred, as he offers Isabela a polite, if faint, bow, "we have a deal." He extends his open hand to Varania and she relinquishes the staff.

Isabela moves. Fenris realizes he'd forgotten how fast and agile the woman is. Without warning she throws herself headlong at Danarius, rolling along the floor so that she can swipe her daggers at his legs while she passes him. Danarius barely manages to deflect the blows with his staff before Isabela rolls onto her feet and springs away from a hastily summoned magic bolt. Fenris' chest swells tightly as he watches, afraid to hope.

Without realizing it, Fenris has climbed to his feet. His arms and legs feel queer, unnaturally light, like a puppet hanging from strings. _No._ He sees Danarius turning to keep Isabela in front, her dagger blows rebuffed by an invisible shield Danarius has conjured around him. Fenris takes a step forward, then another, feeling detached from the weight of his movements. He can't control more than the direction of his gaze, so he looks down at his body and sees his markings flicker to life. _No no no no! _Fenris tells his body to stop moving, he demands it, but his body ignores every frantic thought.

Sweat tracks down his face. The more Fenris tries to resist the next step, the more his blood seems to heat up, until it feels like it's boiling. More than anything he wants to scream with all the breath in his body. Instead he moves in silence, only able to watch helplessly through his own eyes. Neither Isabela and Danarius look his way or seem to notice him, but Fenris knows blood magic and he knows who's the puppeteer.

The floor creaks as Fenris coils his muscles and leaps at Isabela's flank. Isabela intuitively dodges and Fenris crashes into a small table. He grunts but doesn't feel a thing. Fenris scrambles to his feet. He turns to Isabela. Her eyes are wide and uncertain but she keeps her guard up. Her brown eyes search his face. "Fen-"

She can't finish as he throws himself at her, slashing his bare hands like they were claws. She evades him, graceful as a dancer, while he thrashes on like a wounded beast. Fenris has realized that his agility and skill are as limited as Danarius' ability to direct him, and the magister is sweating just from swinging Fenris at the woman like a club. Crude as it is, they are all aware aware that Fenris only need to get his hands on Isabela; his lyrium markings would do the rest and he'd shred through her.

As Isabela glances between Fenris and Danarius, she appears to meet the same conclusion. "Damn you," Isabela curses Danarius. "We had a deal!" She warily steps around the room as Fenris moves toward her. They circle each other, yet Fenris manages to always stand between her and Danarius.

"I'm honoring it." Danarius' laughs. "Do you object to my weapon of choice?"

Fenris prowls in a wide circle, trapping Isabela between he and Danarius. The pirate glances warily between them. _Ignore me!_ Fenris wants to shout, _Do what you came here to do!_ The orb on Danarius' staff shines brighter. Fenris can't help but obey its command and charge at her. He swings his fists at her stomach, then her throat and face, but she obstructs him with the hilt of her daggers each time. He forces her to back up against an apocarthy hutch. He flips his leg to pin her there with his foot, but Isabela throws herself under him as his foot punches through the solid wood.

Isabela springs up from the floor and rushes for Danarius. She takes two strides to vault over a large chaise lounge, tucking her knees in a flip. Danarius has only begun to turn and face her when Isabela lands beside him. Her daggers move in a flurry, blow after blow glancing off the barrier surrounding Danarius, until with a shudder the magic buckles under the onslaught. Suddenly Isabela's blade slices through the magister's robe.

"Whore!" Danarius hisses through his teeth. He stumbles back until he falls on the chaise's ivory cushions. Blood runs down his leg and soaks into his fancy slipper. His staff pulses with even more menace. Fenris pulls his foot free and rushes at Isabela. He plows with his fists and elbows and knees. But Isabela stays ahead of him, if only by inches.

"Fight it, Fenris!" Isabela ducks his fist. His fingers snag her hair and tear a clump from her head. "Argh!"

There's a flash from a gold-foil hilt before a sharp blow lands under his chin. Fenris' head snaps back. He feels the crack in his jaw and tastes blood welling in his mouth. The pain feels like only a memory. Pain alone won't be enough to bring him down. He's fighting like hell to kill her and unless she's ready to do the same, he will. Either way, Danarius has won. It's just a matter of time. His hand catches her chin in a vicious backhand, cracking open her lip. Isabela answers by spinning on her heel and lashing out with the other boot, striking Fenris in the chest with enough force to send him flying. _Good_, he thinks as he goes heels over head. He hits a wall, knocking a tapestry down from it, followed by the iron rod which hoisted it. It lands across his already bruised ribs. All the air in his lungs bursts from his lips, the room spinning above him.

Isabela turns on Danarius, who is trying to pull himself up by his staff. Perhaps its the strain of blood magic, but the magister is looking decrepit with age. His yellow eyes are bloodshot and his gray hair has fallen into disarray. Isabela advances toward him and Danarius falls back onto the couch and pushes himself from her, knocking down tassel pillows as he retreat to its end.

"It isn't wise to turn away from your enemy." Danarius admonishes in a rickety voice.

"I know who my enemy is." Isabela answers, circling the magister with her daggers poised.

Danarius' eyes follow her, his free hand pressed to his wound. "My dear, I simply have something you desire. That should make me a purveyor first." He manages to chuckle.

"People are not _things_." Isabela corrects him sharply. She takes a step closer, warily shifting her gaze between the glowing staff in Danarius' hand and Fenris, as the elf climbs to his feet. Fenris puffs for breath, beads of sweat running down his body. He thrashes on the inside, again trying to throw off the yoke of blood magic but its as futile as wrestling with a rosebush. But these thorns are wicked serrated daggers, its coils binding around him tighter and tighter, to the point of madness.

"Someone, then, as you insist. When we find ourselves in such a scenario agreements can always reached. Violence and the threat of violence certainly have merit, though it is a tad louche to begin negotiations this way. No judgment upon you, my dear; I do realize this is a stressful situation for you. In a heightened emotional state, we are all prone to make mistakes."

Annoyance scrunches Isabela's face. "Shut your mouth before I sit on it, you-" Her eyes roll back in a spasm of pain. "Ahh!"

"Thank you for making my point." Danarius pulls himself up by his staff until he's standing on his feet again. The spider veins in his cheeks shine through bright pink skin. "Though I did warn you not to turn your back to an enemy."

Varania pulls the stiletto letter opener from Isabela's lower back as Isabela instinctively whirls to face her. Varania screams. As the elf crumples to the floor Fenris sees one of Isabela's daggers staked in her side.

The pirate captain stumbles sideways with the rocking ship, her legs quivering. She has only one dagger now and she points at Danarius. "Your turn, cheating fucker." Her chest heaves sharply. Her wound bleeds profusely; half her tunic is already saturated red. Blood beads at the hem and slides down her thighs.

"My intention isn't to embarrass you by pointing this out, but you are in no condition to issue threats." Danarius raises his bloody hand to his lips and tastes it. "You already have lost a lot of blood. You can trust me; I'm something of an expert on this subject."

Isabela rolls her eyes in aggravation. "I don't have time for this." She throws something at the ground. It bursts and a dense cloud of smoke billows to the ceiling, effectively engulfing her.

Danarius thrusts the end of his staff into the smoke. The cabin lights up like it was midday as the staff unleashes a torrent of fire. The sound of Danarius' laughter rings inside Fenris' head. The elf groans as he lifts his head from the floor, dizziness making the movement feel heavy. He sees a flash of steel cut through the smoke and Danarius' laughter shatters into screams. The staff lands with a thunk on the Antivan carpet. It isn't until Danarius lifts what's left of his wrist, nothing more than a stump, that Fenris realizes the magister's hand is still wrapped around the staff on the floor. The ring on its finger looks dull and lusterless.

At that moment, the invisible strings on Fenris are relinquished. All the punishment his body has endured during the fight sweeps over him. His flesh and bones ache with pain as he regains his senses but nothing else could feel more exquisite in the moment. Fenris reaches for a trestle table with shaking fingers and drags himself up to his knees, then gets to his feet.

"Isabela," He croaks, slowly working his way to where she stands over Danarius. The man who has tormented him every day he could remember, who plagued his every step, is bent over his maimed stump in defeat, his weeping soft and unintelligible. The arcane fire spreads around them and the ship is riddled with holes and taking water, but nothing could look more right to Fenris. He smiles weakly at Isabela, who finishes binding her wound with her blue sash while watching him leeringly. "It's me." He assures her.

"But you're smiling."

He almost laughs. Instead he shakes his head. "Stranger things happen." Fenris takes another step toward her but a sudden force hits him with such strength that he's flung off his feet.

"Useless dog!" Danarius screams.

Fenris tries to get his feet under him and manages to avoid landing on his back. "Isabela!" Fenris yells. He tosses the pale hair from his eyes to see Isabela still standing next to Danarius. The magister has Isabela's dagger in his remaining hand, regarding it like an artifact from a forgotten time. "Such a crude method," Danarius mutters. "Truly, civilization beyond the Imperium is a travesty."

Fenris freezes, but not due to any magic. He understands that without the lyrium ring Danarius can't subdue him by his markings. But the magister isn't helpless; losing a hand has, if anything, made him even more dangerous. He hadn't been weeping, Fenris realizes with dismay; the man was chanting, binding Isabela with the same blood magic used to coerce himself into the magister's bidding.

He edges closer. "It's over, Danarius. Keep your word and let us go. You've lost."

Danarius further retreats behind Isabela until he's shielded himself entirely, giggling as he does. It is a sound tinged with madness. "On the contrary."

Fenris narrows his eyes in a glare. "This is cowardly, Danarius."

"'_Master_'!" Danarius huffs.

Fenris' gets near enough that the smell of blood is thick in his nostrils. He glances at Isabela's brown eyes and sees her trapped behind them. Her body shakes with a series of convulses that pushes blood from the corners of her mouth and drips from her chin. "You're not in control anymore," Fenris says, carefully pushing one foot further in front of him, inching his forward. He feels the edge of the rug against his toes but will need to cross it. "I know what you're capable of, and what you are not."

"Truly?" Danarius scowls. "If that is what you believe then you are a fool." He slips the dagger between Isabela's waist and the sash and cuts the cloth free with a hard yank. "The power of blood magic is fathomless. Should I teach the lessons again?"

He throws the dagger away from him and traces his fingers around the deep cut in Isabela's lower back. "Fathomless," Danarius insists with another giggle. "Provided that the blood is plentiful and the pain…" He weasels in one finger, then pushes two more inside the wound. His twists his wrists, pushing deeper, and spreads apart his fingers until the flesh tears and fresh blood pours down his hand. "...is drawn out to maximum effect."

Agonized tears slide down Isabela's face, her mouth open in a twisted caricature of a scream. The anguish of it knifes through Fenris, making his guts clench. "This is madness even for you!" He shouts. All this blood and pain and anger will surely rip open the Veil! Fenris steps forward and pauses to cough on the ash swirling in the air from charred furniture. In the minutes since their duel began, the fires have spread hungrily through the cabin.

An ear-splitting explosion rocks the ship as a cannonball punches a hole through the Tevinter clipper. Isabela's eyes meet his, and Fenris knows they're out of time. He hesitates. When the ship levels with a shudder, Fenris takes another step, into arms reach. Warily Danarius holds Isabela's body tight against him. Fenris shifts his gaze to those yellow, bloodshot eyes. "Danarius-"

"The word is _mas-_"

Fenris punches out with his fist.

"-_ster_."

"You are not my master!" He squeezes Danarius' heart and feels it burst inside his grip. "I. Am. Free."

Danarius' eyes roll back and his chin drops to his chest. Fenris uncurls his fingers from the pulp in his hand and withdraws his hand from the magister's chest, the markings down his arm glowing bright. Danarius drops, dead. Fenris slides his arm free of Isabela's chest as well and stops her from falling to the floor. He catches her in one arm and gently helps her lay down. She is drenched in blood. Her eyelashes flutter wildly. Fenris takes the side of her face in his hand to guide her eyes toward him.

Her heart is pulling summersaults, each frantic beat pushing her into death's arms. "Y-Y-You… bas…"

"You were already dead," he tries to explain, but his lip starts to quiver and he bites down to stop it. _I couldn't… I couldn't let it end here. _Danarius meant to sacrifice her to kill them all. Perhaps he would have let himself become an abomination to escape. She could forgive him for that. She had to understand. Stopping Danarius, stopping Hawke... nothing else mattered.

Nothing else could matter.

Fenris brushes the dark strands of hair stuck to Isabela's neck and waits. It isn't long, only a few moments, for her erractic heartbeat to stop struggling. He lowers Isabela's head to rest on the floor and pulls back with a shuddering breath. He looks at his hands. They are covered in blood, dark as wine. He balls them into fists, murmuring over them.

"Hawke."

Speaking the betrayer's name has become a new mantra. But this time, instead of bringing himself to focus, his chest tightens with emotion. It swells suddenly and fiercely, threatening to break him into pieces he can't possibly put together again. Fenris scrambles to get away from the unwanted feeling but a powerful crashing knocks him down. The sound is like the violent explosion of a forest. In the back of Fenris' mind, he imagines the ship's mast has been torn from the deck by cannons or gale winds or the two together.

_I have to get out_. Fenris picks himself up again and stumbles toward the door letting out into the only passage leading above deck. In the obscuring smoke he trips, not realizing it's the body of the dead sailor. When he looks through the corridor he sees the stairs enveloped in flame. It's impossible that there's anyone up there waiting for him now. The clipper is in tatters and Isabela's ship may already be leagues away to escape the storm.

No, they have to be close by, Fenris assures himself. A crew wouldn't abandon their captain. Right?

He retreats back into the room, coughing into his hand. His mind races as he looks around for a way out. A frothing wave smashes against the bay window, deepening the cracks spread across the glass. He only contemplates it a moment before deciding drowning is preferable to burning alive.

Fenris runs to the chair Danarius had been sitting in. The fire has reached it and its cushions are covered in banners of flame, the surface of its wood frame crisped black. Fenris wraps his hands around the front chair legs and pulls. Sharp, hot pain penetrates through his palms and his skin instantly erupts with blisters. He cries out but continues to pull on the chair. His hands run bloody as the blisters burst, but the chair starts to give with long, protesting creaks as the front legs lift off the floor. Both gasping and coughing, Fenris pulls with everything he has left in him and is rewarded by eruption of the floorboards as the back legs of the chair rip free. Fenris hurries with the chair to the window. He lifts it to his shoulder and then slams it against the glass, which bursts like clay plates. The chair breaks apart in his hands with each subsequent strike but opens a hole big enough for Fenris to crouch in.

As soon as the hole appears smoke rushes to it like a funnel. Briny air swirls through the room, chilling Fenris' skin. He holds tight to the side of the opening and drinks the fresh air, not caring that the saltwater sprays sting his skin like needles. He looks through the hole. There is no moonlight and the horizon blurs between the sky and the sea.

"D-Don't leave me! Please!"

Fenris pulls back and looks toward the voice in surprise. "Varania."

His sister has pulled herself into view from behind the burning chaise. Isabela's dagger sticks out from where her chest and shoulder meet. Varania sees him notice her and tries to push herself up from the floor. But a violent shiver runs through her arms and she weeps in pain, lowering herself back down. "Leto!" She pleads.

He pushes himself from the window and stumbles to her, slipping twice as the ship bobs under him like a cork. He ignores the faces on the bodies he steps over to reach her. Varania looks up at Fenris, frightened. Not of him, he's dazed to realize, studying her plaintive eyes. Her complexion appears so waxen that her freckles blend in with the blood spattered over her face. Fenris pushes her onto her back. Climbing over her, he bands his fingers around her neck.

_I remember you. _

"No… please..." His sister moans as his fingers begin to squeeze.

_Sunlight, hot days in master's courtyard, your hand in mine, the sound of mother calling, we played together_,_ brother and sister, friends. _

Fenris shakes his head, trying to push back against the memories crowding behind his eyes, but only succeeding in getting them to stick, inexorable as cobwebs.

"Mer… mercy…" She ineffectually pushes her hands against his chest, palms slipping against smears of blood across his skin. Her heartbeat pounds against her throat, thrashing inside his grip.

_Magic comes, a life for a life, empty courtyard, cold nights, broken promises. _

Her white lips shiver. Her eyes are wide and black and helpless like an animal's. Fenris stares into her face, keeping his eyes locked on hers. He watches those eyes beg him for life and hopes she sees the answer in his.

_I loved you._

"No!" He answers the revelation as much as he answers the tears sliding from her eyes. His own vision blurs, hot and wet. "This _is_ mercy." He rasps, clenching harder, ignoring the excruciating pain in his ragged palms. The trembling in his arms shakes through the rest of him. The room seems to spin around him when he feels a _pop_ in her neck and her body goes soft and limp.

Fenris falls back and slides onto the ground. All around him wisps of fire fall from the ceiling like snow. Such a wisp gently touches down on the Antivan rug and the brandy that had puddled on it ignites with a deafening roar and blinding flash. Fenris is half-thrown across the floor, colliding against the four-poster bed. The skin on his chest and arms are seared pink. Painfully he gets to his feet and dizziness hits him on the head like a club. He blinks furiously to clear away the spots dancing in his eyes. He works his way toward the roar of water until he touches cool window glass. He pulls himself up the hole and sags against it to catch his breath, then climbs up and tenses to leap just as a cannon ball explodes into the room behind him.

The blast knocks him clear of the ship. He sails through the air in a shower of debris, his body buffeted by winds that turn him in every direction. As he plummets toward the rollicking waves, a flaming chair leg - from Danarius' favorite chair, the very one he'd smashed - comes whistling down with enough force to pierce him through the back.

There's no time for Fenris to scream before he slams into the water, plunging into the abyss.


End file.
